


II.

by midinvaerne



Series: The Fragmentation of Splintering Steel [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, One Shot, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8185651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midinvaerne/pseuds/midinvaerne
Summary: Kaer Morhen, evening





	

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, edging close to the fire, and hesitant despite its warm, inviting glow. The logs crackled and sizzled, searing heat into the cold, dark corridors; and he stood where the light was brightest, jerking himself at every shadow and moving treetop beyond the cobweb-covered windows and the dark beyond them. 

The heavy hand at his back was a reassurance, a bigger one than the flickering flames could ever be. He used the back of his other hand to dry his eyes, tucking the sleeve into his hand as he finally caved in and put his head into the nook of Vesemir’s shoulder. 

“They were saying mean… Mean a-and, scary things again.” he muttered, wedging himself closer yet to sit on the witcher’s leg. 

“Who was?” 

The pressure of the hand between his shoulders somehow made him warmer than the fire. 

“Ge-Geralt. And... And Eskel.” 

Vesemir’s arm wrapped around his waist, keeping him up in his high seat on the old witcher’s thigh. 

“And what were they saying?” His voice was deep and calm. Uncannily calm, and sounded like home, like the worn planks of the higher floors that creaked underfoot and smelled of dust, like the evening sun on moss-covered arches of stone and the long shadows they cast over the backs of mountains, like the shallow puddles of water in worn paths of gravel after a surge of rain passes and leaves the earth washed clean. He could feel the tears he so helplessly tried to hold back drying out in the corners of his eyes. 

His breath still quivered in his chest. But it was steadying.

 

“They… They were talking a-about monsters. That… Drowners eat people, that they will take a bite out of my stomach and squirm their hands in and tear me to pieces if they catch me… That… A bruxa might drag me into the middle of the forest… Suck all my blood out… And leave me there, dry, dying...” The words got stuck in his throat like a boulder, making it hard to breathe. They were restrictive and choking in the fear they stirred inside him; now, he expected vampires and werewolves to jump out of every dark alcove and shed his blood over the corridor walls like a spectacle of horror. 

Vesemir only shook his head, patting him on the back. 

“That, Lambert,” His eyes gleamed like a cat’s in the dark, “Is absolutely not true. Yes, they could do that. They’re monsters. Dangerous, evil. But they will not.” 

He looked up to face the old man with a question in his dark eyes, wiping the snot from his sleeve into his trousers. Catlike, and yellow, amber in the light of the flames that shimmered on them, Vesemir’s eyes were all that. But he did not fear those. Quite the opposite.

“Why?” he piped up. 

“Because you will not let them.” A glint of fire reflected off the medallion’s teeth; for a fraction of a moment, Lambert thought that he saw a faint glow in its slanted eyes. But it was no more than a play of lights. Right when it passed back into the shadow of the vest’s collar, it was dark and dull as iron again. 

“And you know why you shall not let them do those things to you?” 

His eyes went wide, still glistening with tears, but he shook his head. Vesemir’s hand slipped under his chin, turning his head up. 

“Because you are going to become a witcher.” 


End file.
